


Tiger, Tiger Burning Bright

by chewysugar



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic Bliss, F/M, Fireworks, Fluff, Fourth of July, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Love, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-26 17:16:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15005594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: MJ loves Peter the way she loves fireworks.





	Tiger, Tiger Burning Bright

I love fireworks. Then again, I don’t know a lot of people who hate them. Fireworks are like music: only the worst kind of individuals admit to not liking them. I mean, who in their right goddamn mind walks around like “Hey, my name is Susan and I’m the one person in the world who doesn’t like music or fireworks.”

Thing is, though, I don’t know if I like them for the same reason most people do.

In New York City, the annual Independence Day fireworks are set off shortly after dusk. Midtown is the best place to set the sky ablaze—anywhere else and you wouldn’t see them. It’s lucky that we’ve made our home in Chelsea, where we’ve got a good sight on lots of colorful, local happenings: parades, protests, hookers on the sidewalk, men touching themselves on park benches, and fireworks. Anywhere else in the city and there’d be no point, no matter how high the fireworks shoot.

New York City: lights, sound...it’s all I’ve ever known. So why the hell do I like fireworks so much? Why does anyone like fireworks, when New York City is so bright and loud on the best of days? And with my childhood, so full of explosive sound, I can’t be drawn to the big, bright sparkles in the sky due to nostalgia.

Still, perched on the windowsill, I watch. Hot city air, rife with the dampness of the Hudson and Atlantic, dances across my skin. It’s a hot night—something else I feel an irrational pull towards.

Whoever is in charge of the display is going all out. Fireworks burst above the rooftops in bright blossoms of blue, white, orange and purple. There are luminous white sparkles, and gigantic golden globes that spread almost across the entire skyline. It’s beautiful, breathtaking—and right below my quiet reverence there’s a sense of wistfulness.

In the light cast by the display and city, I can see the smoke ghosting in the air. All the wonder—all the feelings invoked by this spectacular display—turns to nothing after only a few hours. Everyone will go home with only memories of the show.

Maybe that’s why I like fireworks. It’s the same thing that drew me to modelling. Sure, there’s this display of creativity and expression; sure, people walk away from a fireworks display and a fashion show feeling a certain _je nais se quois_. But after that, there’s nothing to show. No totems; just memories and, if you’re lucky, a few blurry photos.

Even as the display illuminates our apartment, I can’t help but sigh. It figures that my special brand of neurosis would drain the beauty of a fireworks show meant to celebrate America. But what does _that_ even mean anymore? What does anyone need in celebrating something so nebulous as home and country?

Or fighting for it?

My eyes drift, as they so often do, from the world to _my_ world. He’s conked out on the bed in the middle of our loft apartment, one bare leg sticking off the mattress. Our thinnest, coolest sheets cover his waist in a haphazard way. Even with the bandages around his chest, the healing bruises and the pink cuts, he’s still a sight to behold.

Or maybe I’m just that deeply in love. By this point most people would give up. Hell, after putting two and two together they’d have moved to a new zip code. But I can’t. He’s everything to me: salvation, frustration, perfection. Byron couldn’t put my feelings into words. Or maybe he could. The man had a way with the pen, and a flare for waxing...well, poetic.

I slide away from the window; from the city, from the fireworks. Every few seconds the show lights up the shadows of the little home we’ve made together. Peter’s skin glows with the pinks and blues and purple hues of a thousand airborne pyrotechnics. He looks peaceful despite the injuries; beautiful in that way that only a man can be: my warrior, my king...my tiger.

What I feel as I kneel next to him is stronger than lust; hotter than love. Even with the trials and tribulations, I won’t let him go. He’s rare; one of those souls who a few people are lucky to cross paths with, let alone have all to themselves.

I smooth his hair off his forehead, and press my lips to his skin. I can just hear the sounds of the national anthem from the celebration, but I could care less.

Patriotism is just a construct.

This? This is universal, cosmic in a way that defies even beings like Uatu.

Peter stirs, and his eyes open—or open as best they can with one of them being blue. He smiles, then winces at the strain it puts on his face.

“Good show?”

I laugh a little. “Yeah. Pretty damn good.” That thing in me that thinks the world of him, and then some, rockets through my chest. Like the fireworks speckling the Big Apple’s skyline, it explodes in me.

“I love you,” I whisper, kissing his lips as gently as I can.

“And I love you. So damn much, baby.” Even after all this time, there’s still guilt in his voice. Like it’s his fault that there’s evil in the world; like it’s his fault that he’s fighting it.

“Get some sleep, Prince Charming.” I kiss him again.

“Isn’t that supposed to wake me up? A kiss, I mean.”

“Yeah, I guess. But not in this fairy tale.” We’re unique, after all. I’d rather our story be different—which it completely is.

He settles back into the mattress. I wait, watching his chest rise and fall. I think about all the times I’ve felt his heart beat; of every time his arms have held me during a sleepless night. All that sparkling, brilliant devotion mellows now, coursing through my veins—not like heat, but still there, still tangible.

It’ll never leave me. Just like the memory of this firework show will be in the minds of those people who are witnessing it. Maybe I’m not as screwed up as I thought? Maybe this is how it’s supposed to be with anything—eruptions both big and small that pepper our lives and souls with color and fire?

That’s a matter for the philosophers though. For now I’m just a woman in love with the most remarkable man. And really, that’s all it needs to be: no deeper meaning.

What there is? That’s more than enough, more than I ever thought I’d get in life.

I stand by the window this time. The show is winding down. Naturally the technicians are pulling out all the stops. Dreams and hopes fill the night sky and explode in dazzling spheres and shapes. The rumble of hundreds and hundreds of fireworks shake the windows of our apartment building.

They’re only fireworks. It’s only love. But both are pretty damn incredible. Even when you only take them at the surface level.

**Author's Note:**

> It's so nice to be writing again. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


End file.
